Highway Drifter

By GA Hauser

Detective Amir Mehdi may have only been a homicide detective for three months, but he had stumbled onto a nightmare. Someone was killing people. And, convincing his captain that these homicides were connected became increasingly difficult, until he met Lt Krista Shapiro from South Dakota’s State Patrol.
As the unlikely duo stumble through their investigation, they find one man.
One man who appears to stand out from the locals.

Justice Chadwick loved to hunt...for men.
The hot hunk was on a mission. Well, maybe two missions.
Getting laid...and finding a killer.

One out of the two cravings was a certainty...Justice was going to get laid.
The other problem? Well, he’d leave that up to the two cops; the plump blonde lady lieutenant, and the other dude...the one who needed a little boost in confidence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GA Hauser
• Release date: Aug 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463497548

GA Hauser

About the AuthorAuthor G.A. Hauser is from Fair Lawn, New Jersey, USA. She attended university at The Fashion Institute of Technology in NYC, and has a BA in Fine Art from William Paterson College in Wayne NJ where she graduated Cum Laude. As well as degrees in art, G.A. is a Graduate Gemologist from the Gemological Institute of America (GIA). In 1994 G.A. graduated the Washington State Police academy as a Peace Officer for the Seattle Police Department in Washington where she worked on the patrol division. She was awarded Officer of the Month in February 2000 for her work with recovering stolen vehicles and fingerprint matches to auto-theft and bank robbery suspects. After working for the Seattle Police, G.A. moved to Hertfordshire, England where she began to write full length gay romance novels. Now a full-time writer, G.A. has penned over 200 novels and short stories. Breaking into independent film, G. A. was the executive producer for her first feature film, CAPITAL GAMES which included TV star Shane Keough in its cast. CAPITAL GAMES had its Film Festival Premiere at Philly's Qfest, and its television premiere on OutTV. G.A. is the director and executive producer for her second film NAKED DRAGON, which is an interracial gay police/FBI drama filmed in Los Angeles with the outstanding cinematographer, Pete Borosh. (also the Cinematographer for Capital Games)The cover photographs of G.A.'s novels have been selected from talented and prolific photographers such as Dennis Dean, Dan Skinner, Michael Stokes, Tuta Veloso, Hans Withoos, and CJC Photography, as well as graphic comic artist, Arlen Schumer. Her cover designs have featured actors Chris Salvatore, Jeffery Patrick Olson, Tom Wolfe, and models Brian James Bradley, Bryan Feiss, Jimmy Thomas, Andre Flagger, among many others.Her advertisements have been printed in Attitude Magazine, LA Frontier, and Gay Times.G. A. has won awards from All Romance eBooks for Best Author 2009, Best Novel 2008, Mile High, Best Author 2008, Best Novel 2007, Secrets and Misdemeanors, and Best Author 2007.G.A. was the guest speaker at the SLA conference in San Diego, in 2013, where she discussed women writing gay erotica and has attended numerous writers’ conventions across the country.

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HIGHWAY DRIFTER

By

G.A. HAUSER

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2018

HIGHWAY DRIFTER

Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2018

ISBN Trade paperback: 978-1986-1804-8-1

© The G.A. Hauser Collection LLC

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WARNING

This book contains material that maybe offensive to some: graphic language, homosexual relations, adult situations. Please store your books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

First The G.A. Hauser Collection LLC publication:

June 2018

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Chapter 1

By eleven pm most patrons were drunk.

Few lights illuminated their faces; candles, neon, outdoor spotlights…Monday, Monday by The Mamas and The Papas was playing on the jukebox.

It was better in the dark. Places like this…you didn’t want to see in bright light. At least I don’t.

Justice Chadwick had positioned himself in the far corner of the bar…last seat near the wall. From there, he had a view of not only the door, but the crowd as well.

He had been nursing his cheap-ass scotch and soda for a long while.

Midnight? The magic hour?

Not tonight.

As someone shouted to the bartender over the din for another round, Justice noticed his nails were dirty. He took a pocketknife out of his jeans and scraped under them with a blade.

A noise of glass shattering caught his attention. A waitress had dropped a tumbler she was clearing from a table.

After the initial distraction, conversations resumed while she picked up the shards carefully.

Justice pocketed his knife, moved a bowl of nuts closer, and cracked open a peanut from its shell, eating it. He brushed the shells into his palm and dumped them onto an empty plate. Most people let them drop on the floor. Not him.

Is this spot taken?

Justice sat up higher on the barstool. Nope.

A younger man sat beside him. He was wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves chopped off at the biceps, a baseball cap facing backwards, a clunky stainless steel watch and faded blue jeans.

While he waited for the bartender’s attention, Justice stared at his profile. There were unoccupied tables in the room. Why’d the guy choose this spot?

Stinks like BO in here. The young man leaned his elbows on the counter. Yo! A beer?

Justice opened another peanut, chewing it.

The bartender gave in to the slightly rude call, and walked over.

I’ll take a pint of the IPA on special. The young man held his wallet, as if showing he could pay.

Without a word, the stoic old man pulled a pint.

Justice glanced at a group of bikers leaving. They were loud, shouting to each other, laughing, swearing.

Two single dollar bills were placed on the bar, for the ‘special’ buck-ninety-nine ale.

The young man sipped the beer, appearing to vacantly stare at the bottles that lined the back of the bar.

Justice cracked open another peanut.

The young man glanced at him.

Nuts? Justice moved the bowl of peanuts closer. His one word could have been a question about sanity, right?

No, thanks. The young man gave him a scrutinizing look. You from here?

Yup. Nope.

I’m just passing through. The young man tipped up the beer.

I figured you for a local. My radar must be off. Most people do…pass through. Justice heard more raucous laughter and checked on it. Two women, drunk, older biker chicks, one had prison tattoos on her neck.

Fuck. Is this place safe? The young man chuckled, but sounded nervous. I just wanted a beer before I turned in. Maybe I should have bought one at the minimart.

Traveling on your own? Justice took an interest.

Yeah. Meeting a buddy over in Deadwood.

Ever been there? Justice asked.

No. I heard it was cool. The young man adjusted his ball-cap.

Yeah. It’s cool. Justice laughed to himself.

Cade. The young man held out his hand.

Hi, Cade. He clasped it. As his hand was held, squeezed, and Cade stared into his eyes, Justice caught a vibe.

The music grew louder and the occupants kept shouting over it.

Cade finished his beer. Fuck. I can’t stand the noise.

Ya get used to it.

Nah. Cade moved his empty glass away from himself. You…uh, staying for another round?

Why? Justice kept his gaze at the entrance while more bikers came and went.

No reason. Cade stood from the stool and gave him a last glance.

Justice knew that look. Bold, for a dive bar here in South Dakota.

Take it easy, Cade said.

Seeing that enticing back view, Justice tossed the rest of his cheap scotch down with a shiver of disgust, and threw cash on the bar. He followed.

When both men emerged from the tavern, Cade paused.

Justice stared at him as Harley Davidson choppers made a racket coming and going from the dark parking lot. The tavern was on the Interstate 90 corridor, and a cheap motel was close.

So close…

Cade stared at him, then walked towards that twenty-dollar a night motel.

Justice followed. Sure. I’ll bite. Boy do I.

Cade walked up to one of the dimly lit rooms. The door had the number twelve on it. He unlocked it, entered, and spun around.

Justice stood at the threshold.

The interior was kept dark, lit only from a streetlight; a double bed, this kid’s suitcase, a desk, a TV and dust…that was the extent of the contents.

Cade tossed his baseball cap aside and took off his shirt.

Now we’re talking.

Justice closed the motel door, locking it. He drew his shirt over his head as Cade dragged his jeans down his legs and took off his shoes and socks.

Once the young man was naked, Justice pushed him onto the bed.

Like a good boy, Cade rolled over, facedown.

Justice jerked his cock, staring at that tight ass in the sliver of light coming through the heavy curtain from the parking lot. Cade glanced at him from over his shoulder.

Removing his gun from the back of his waistband, Justice tucked his holster under his shirt on the floor, and crawled on his knees on the bed. Positioning himself behind Cade, he got himself hard enough for sex, and then dampened the head of his dick, advancing.

Oh, fuck… Cade reached for the pillow and held it under his head.

Justice kept Cade submissive, as he fucked the hell out of him.

~

Twenty-five year old, Amir Mehdi had only been a homicide detective for three months.

Their county department was woefully underfunded.

In plainclothes, a suit and tie, Amir followed the trail of blue and red spinning lights to a room. The uniformed officers backed up, allowing him in.

That smell. Nasty!

He snapped on latex gloves and had a look. A young man had been stabbed repeatedly.

A sergeant handed Amir a wallet. Found it in the pants’ pocket.

Amir opened it, trying to locate ID. Nothing was left inside it. This was how you found it? Empty but inside a pocket?

Yes.

Everything was removed from it. Nothing was left to ID the victim but forensics and fingerprints.

~

Justice stood at the sink in a room, washing. His blue eyes were piercing, a slight cleft on his chin, gray touching his sideburns. Rinsing, he dried his face and stood topless, jeans on, reading his phone.

Nothing was sent to him. As he finished getting dressed, Justice turned on the TV, looking for news. He located a local station and tucked his shirt into his pants as he listened.

Chance of rain, school shootings, corrupt politicians…

And…a local homicide.

~

Back in his office, Amir struggled with a sense of helplessness. He tore open a plastic wrapper of a purchase he’d made, and unfolded a map. With pushpins he hung it on his office wall.

He removed his suit jacket, loosened the knot of his tie, and picked up a printout from his computer.

Slowly, he located the points on the map, coinciding with the printout. A trail emerged.

Fuck. He had a hunch, but kept it to himself so far. But, the red pins he just stuck in, formed a line. A line following the I-90 corridor.

Once he had established the sequence and timeline, Amir sat at his desk and compared autopsy reports.

Yes. It appeared to be the same killer.

~

Justice parked his black sedan and watched the tavern.

Not that tavern.

A different one.

But…it could have been the same, judging by the clientele.

Motorcycles were parked in a row, a rabid dog barked from the back of a pickup truck where it was leashed. Roof! Roof!

Two seedy women stood near the alley, turning tricks.

Looked the same. Wasn’t the same.

Justice leaned forward in the driver’s seat, stuffed his Glock forty caliber holster behind his back, into his waistband, and climbed out of his car. He loosened the bottom of his hoodie to cover the gun, and pulled the hood up.

A scan of the parking lot, a check of cars, trucks, bikes and a…scooter? Come on, man. He rolled his eyes.

Scooting while drunk.

Sure. Beats the DUI.

He walked through a crowd of leather, chains, scraggily beards, shaven heads, and tattoos to the entrance. If the place had saloon doors his entrance would be awesome.

No saloon doors, just the stink of old tobacco and exhaled booze.

He stood right inside the door for a second, checking out the occupants. Why are these places so loud? And what’s with the floor. Why does it crunch?

All the way in back. There’s a spot just for me.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Tuesday’s Gone was playing on the jukebox.

Justice sat on the barstool, one that was hiding behind the rounded counter edge. From there he was able to see the whole screaming tavern at once. Perfect.

He ran his hand over his hair, touching his hood, lowering it. The bartender was busy, he didn’t mind.

Rapid City.

Nothing rapid about it.

What can I get you? The bartender was chubby and bald with a reddish scrubby beard. He had H-A-T-E tattooed on his knuckles. Cliché?

Your cheapest scotch with soda.

When he was served, he caught L-O-V-E on the man’s left knuckles. Classic.

He sipped the drink. It was terrible. That’s why he ordered it. He needed to keep sober. Ahh, yeck, that’s disgusting. He had a good look around, clicking his tongue at the bitterness of the alcohol.

Ten o’clock and people were drunk. Booze. What an amazing and prolific pastime.

~

Amir splashed his face over the sink.

His eyes were red from lack of sleep. He shaved, his beard-growth heavy and dark, like his hair, like his skin…brown.

He couldn’t give a shit if he was the only ‘brown’ man on the department. Didn’t give a shit if some of the cops didn’t like him, because he was ‘brown’. Fuck you. I came into the world this color. Do you think I’m a terrorist?

I’m a cop! Amir yelled at his reflection.

He rinsed the shaving gel and dried his face. Would they listen to him? A brown rookie homicide detective?

I’ll make them listen.

He left the bathroom and changed into a suit and tie. They have to listen.

~

Is this seat taken?

When a woman asked him that ten minutes ago, he said, Yes. Now? Hello, handsome.

Justice shook his head, chewing the mouthful of food. Food? Nope. Pub-Grub.

‘Grub.’ It filled his stomach. Some of the grub had been delicious, however.

He brushed his hands off with a paper napkin and glanced at the man.

Cute. Hard worker. Muscular.

Want these? Justice moved a basket of fries towards the young man. The sliders did me in.

Sure. The young man ate a few at a time.

The bald bartender who couldn’t decide between love and hate approached the young man. I need to see ID.

Justice chuckled to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been carded.

The hottie’s proof of age was handed over.

Justice tried to see it, maybe read his name.

What can I get you? The bartender wiped the counter near the cold fries.

Uh… The young man glanced at him, then put his ID away. How about the half priced beer.

Justice kept his eye on the door of the tavern.

The young man devoured his fries as he waited for the beer. The music was loud. It had switched from rock to country and western; usual lyrics; Waaah, I lost my gal…waaahh, my pickup broke down…waaah, my dog got the flu…Roof! Roof! Cough!

An older man entered the establishment; wearing slacks as if from a business suit, gray, shabby- not chic- a beige dress shirt with sweat stains on the collar, under a darker gray blazer that did not match the slacks, and black or brown socks and black shoes.

No. Not right. Something’s not right.

Justice kept his eye on the dude.

The bartender brought the hottie his cheap beer. He stacked Justice’s plates and removed them.

Save my seat. Justice knew the young man beside him heard. He got a nod.

Justice slid off the bar stool, making sure his gun was hidden, tugging down the hoodie in back. He casually…at least tried to be casual…made his way closer.

As he inspected the unkempt appearance of this dude, smelling something nasty from him; strong-sour, as if maybe he didn’t like soap- the funky dude caught his gaze.

The man had his hands deep in his pockets, which sucked, because Justice wanted to see them. See his fingers. See his nails.

Nope.

Dude walked right out of the tavern.

He wasn’t about to run after him. Too many people were here.

Justice ‘moseyed’ out. But, no one was around but a handful of biker chicks, sharing a joint.

~

I’m not sure. Amir stood in front of three, a little panel of law enforcement. But, there is a link. He used a white board and red marker. Method of murder. Stabbing. Place of murders. Seedy motels. And, no forensics. They form a line down Interstate 90. He unfolded his map, and tried to hold it up.

Someone actually yawned.

So, Detective Mehdi, you think this is a serial killer?

I’m not saying anything for a fact. I’m just pointing out the similarities. Dude? Did you just eye-roll me? He was trying not to get frustrated.

~

Justice sat back down. He still had half a glass of scotch. It tasted disgusting. One drink nursed for hours. God, this is gross.

Mr Love/Hate slid the tab in front of him. Justice heard the young man chuckle beside him.

He knows you’re not local.

And, how’d he know that? Is my cover blown? Justice didn’t care. It made him laugh.

Red knows everyone from ‘round here.

That’s not very friendly of Red. Justice slid the tab aside. I’ll pay when I’m damn ready, partner.

Frank.

Justice had no idea what he meant…

Frank? Am I? Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a—

Then…Justice noticed hottie’s hand extended in a kind gesture. Hi, Frank. The handshake was warm, dry, and delightfully strong. You live close by? Justice asked.

Just up the road. Frank thumbed behind him.

New you were a local. The smell of working man’s sweat.

They remained quiet, then Frank said, What do you think about that murder?

Which? I can’t keep track. Justice took a look at the occupants. Just a rowdy bunch of bikers, nothing to worry about.

Up the road a bit.

Still don’t know. Justice shrugged. Yeah, he did. There were more than a few lately.

"I’m not sure either. Someone said a drifter is killing people.